


i will be the water for your thirst

by seventhstar



Series: time travel threesomes [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Haircuts, Historical Dress, M/M, Multi, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Past Version Of Self, Revenge, Rimming, Self-cest, Sexting, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Victor's Regency Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: Yuuri and Viktor's fifth wedding anniversary is interrupted by the arrival through time of one Viktor Nikiforov, fresh from his first Grand Prix Final gold medal, crying.They have to fuck him. They did it with the younger Yuuri--it's only fair.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> I was really, really hoping to have this entire thing done for Viktor's birthday, but I just couldn't. I'm so sorry.
> 
> The rest will follow in the new year!

Yuuri can’t find the tie in the drawer or in the closet, so he resorts to checking under the sink in the kitchen. Sometimes when Viktor is distracted, he hides things in unlikely places. (Yuuri owns a number of ties that Viktor would deem acceptable, but he likes to rile Viktor up by wearing the Sochi banquet one.)

He’s got his head inside the cabinet when he hears the sirens go off. Yuuri sighs and gropes around on the counter above until he finds the anchor bands in a bowl there; he puts one on.

Ever since the Yuurik Incident (as Yuuri thinks of it), he’s been unable to hear the sirens without feeling a totally inappropriate frisson of desire. After Yuurik left, drawn back to Detroit and that disastrous season that changed his life, Yuuri’s memories of his passage through time returned. It’s been six years since then, but Yuuri still thinks about it.  
  
(Viktor is so good to him.)

They were married a year later; today is their fifth anniversary. Yuuri is thirty-one now. He still can’t quite believe it, when he looks in the mirror: retired figure skater Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov, Olympic gold medalist, world record holder, married to fellow competitor and living legend Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov, living happily in their apartment in Russia with their two dogs.  
  
How did he get this lucky? Yuuri can’t think of anything he’s done to deserve it. And yet, Viktor’s eyes still glow with love when they’re together; he’s the one Viktor wants, the one he needs.  
  
They’re thinking of moving back to Japan. Maybe they’ll go back to school (Viktor has hinted he wants to try, and Yuuri has been encouraging him). Maybe they’ll decide to stay in Russia and take over for Yakov, as he keeps suggesting. Maybe they’ll take a third honeymoon and go lie in the sun somewhere tropical and let the future take care of itself.

Lost in these pleasant ruminations, Yuuri doesn’t notice when his nose begins to itch, and he nearly hits his head on the cabinet door when reality bends in on itself, the air shudders, and something whooshes from elsewhere in the apartment.

 _I wonder who it is,_ Yuuri thinks. He climbs out from beneath the sink, straightens his shirt, and goes looking.

There’s no one in the living room or in the study, so Yuuri goes toward the bedroom. The door is cracked; he can hear noises inside. He hesitates; what if it’s someone dangerous?

Yuuri peers through the crack between door and frame and sees—

—Viktor. But not his Viktor; this is a younger version. He’s sitting on the bed, looking bewildered. He’s wearing a faded pink tshirt and boxers. His hair is short, ragged, like he’s just cut it all off himself, with strands of silvery hair stuck all over his shoulders. There are a few waist length pieces dangling down over the left side of his face.

Yuuri drinks him in, the smeared mascara and the tear tracks through his concealer and the remnants of the manicure, dark blue, hastily removed. There’s a medal around Viktor’s neck, one from Juniors, silver.

It seems like an odd choice to be wearing—this Viktor is somewhere between his first Grand Prix Final gold and Russian Nationals, judging by the haircut. He remembers the exact date of Viktor’s dramatic haircut debut at Russian Nationals that season.

(Yuuri still has the crystal clear memory of Viktor debuting his new hairstyle at Nationals, sudden realization that he was into short hair now and all.)

Young Viktor’s expression is blank, lips pressed together, which is why it takes Yuuri a few seconds to realize that he’s still crying quietly.

He must not have noticed Yuuri, then; if he had, he’d be trying to compose himself.

Yuuri opens his mouth to speak.

“Where…” Viktor looks around. “Well, that gets me out of having to throw him out,” he mutters.

There is a hickey on Viktor’s neck.

Yuuri can’t believe he didn’t see it before, but now that he’s noticed it he can’t stop looking at it. Is the medal Viktor’s wearing a sex thing? Is that why he’s crying?

Viktor wipes at his face with his fingertips, gently, to keep from damaging the delicate skin around his eyes. Yuuri can predict without looking what he’ll do next: he’ll go into the bathroom, wash his face and put on eye cream, and then look for Makkachin.

He should probably let Viktor know he’s here. Yuuri opens his mouth to speak—

“Makkachin?” Viktor calls. No response; the dogs are out being walked. “Makkachin?”

He sighs, pushes his remaining hair out of his face, and goes into the bathroom. Yuuri can hear him rattling around. Things have been reorganized over the past. He hears Viktor curse; maybe he can’t find the eye cream, maybe he’s just seen Yuuri’s favored cheap shampoo in the shower.

When he comes out, his face is red from washing, and his hair’s been combed, but even the cold water can’t take away the puffiness around his eyes or disguise the set of Viktor’s mouth. Yuuri follows Viktor’s gaze as he surveys the room. It’s a little messy, as they spent the morning sleeping in and the afternoon at the vet. Yuuri’s recently discarded clothing is draped over a chair; the closet door is ajar, revealing three pairs of Viktor’s shoes on the floor within. A dog toy is sitting on the dresser between the tissues and the jewelry polish.

The furniture is unchanged from what Viktor had when Yuuri first moved in; they’ve added another chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, so they can sit together and read when it rains, and another hamper in the bathroom. Viktor’s silk sheets have been replaced by flannel. Yuuri insisted they put up curtains to cover the window, even if it was one way glass; they compromised with a folding screen that’s lying propped against the wall.

Viktor walks to the window and looks out of it. The back of his head is cut much worse than the front. He riffles through a couple of the dresser drawers, through their socks and underwear and pajamas, and then peeks under the bed. What’s down there, besides dust and all the boxes of books Viktor can’t fit in the living room or study, Yuuri has no idea. Finally, Viktor turns towards the door.

Yuuri opens his mouth to speak again. This time he’s going to say something.

Viktor’s gaze flicks to the right as he seizes on the arrangement of photographs hung between the bathroom and closet doors.

The photo wall is one of Viktor’s creations—matching frames, three hours spent measuring and hanging to make it aesthetically appealing, at least one artistic nude of each of them—that he added after Yuuri moved in. The apartment was barer then, the only personal touches being Viktor’s books and Makkachin’s toys. It had taken Yuuri longer than he liked to understand that Viktor’s obsession with redecorating was his way of celebrating having Yuuri living with him.

It was important to Viktor that the photographs show all the good things that had happened to him since he met Yuuri.  
  
Viktor is examining each photograph carefully. He bypasses the nudes and starts with the wedding photographs in the middle. They were married in Hasetsu, after the season was over; the reception was held at the onsen, and his mother brought out the secret family datemaki recipe. Makkachin was their ring bearer. Mari was Yuuri’s best man.  
  
(Yuuri hardly remembers most of it, if he’s honest with himself. He remembers being terrified. He remembers his suit itched. He remembers Viktor’s eyes were wet, and Yuuri asking why he was crying, and Viktor saying, “I’m just so happy,” and knowing, then, that it was going to be fine.)  
  
One of the frames is just slightly crooked. Viktor straightens it.  
  
Next Viktor looks at the prints of them on the ice. There’s a shot of their now-iconic pair skate, twin shots of them mid-quad flip, Yuuri accepting his Olympic gold with his face screwed up in ugly sobbing, a shot from faraway of Viktor coaching Yuuri rinkside during the Cup of China a few hours before their kiss.  
  
Viktor spends more time than Yuuri feels comfortable with staring at the picture of Yuuri skating. Yuuri has yet to do anything to distinguish himself where Viktor is from.

(There is a constellation of bruises on the back of Viktor’s legs, dark and fresh.)  
  
Finally Viktor drifts to the remaining pictures, mostly candid ones. Group shots from meet ups with foreign friends. Yuuri and Phichit and Celestino and three former rinkmates at a Detroit reunion. Yuuri and Viktor in Barcelona last year, the camera zoomed in on their bare backs, showing off Viktor’s summer freckles dotting his skin like stars. Yurio’s eighteenth birthday, with every Russian skater plus Yakov and Lilia crowded together to keep anyone’s head from getting cut off.  
  
He likes these best, Yuuri can tell, because he reaches out to touch his own smiling face in one of the images.

“Who…?” he says. He frowns, leaning forward, like the answer is hidden there somewhere. “Lohengrin, maybe…”

Yuuri shudders. It would be _Lohengrin_ Viktor remembers.

Viktor sighs, deeply, and sits down on the edge of the bed again. He brushes some of the hair off his shoulders, and he looks at his hands, and to Yuuri’s horror, he starts crying silently again. And Yuuri has no idea why.

So Yuuri bursts into the room.

“Vitya?”

Viktor nearly falls off of the bed; Yuuri has to grab him by the shoulders to steady him. He flinches under Yuuri’s touch. Cursing inwardly, Yuuri lets him go. He might have guessed that Viktor wouldn’t want Yuuri to touch him before they’d even been introduced.

“Hi,” Yuuri says. Belatedly, he turns around to flail at the tissue box on the dresser for a handful. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s me. Yuuri. We’re married.”

“Yes, I saw.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Viktor looks him over. Yuuri almost flinches, he’s put on a little weight since retiring—and then Viktor’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Yuuri revises his current emotional state from ‘vaguely insecure about his age’ to ‘embarrassingly distracted by young Viktor’s mouth’.

“Married, huh? I’m surprised.” Viktor leans in. “Can you tell me about us? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“We haven’t.” Yuuri does not want to tell him about the banquet even though he knows Viktor won’t remember it. “When you were seventeen you locked yourself in the dressing room inside Harrod’s and had to crawl under the door to escape, and then you hurt yourself doing it and lied and told everyone it was a sex injury.”  
  
“...oh.” Viktor blinks. His ears are red. “I’ve never told anyone that.”  
  
“You told me,” Yuuri says, “but you were really drunk and trying to get me to stop crying.”  
  
“Why were you crying?”  
  
“Vodka.”

Yuuri isn’t even sure himself why he was sad in the first place—they were barhopping with Georgi and Mila, the entire night was a sweaty alcoholic-soaked blur—he just remembers Viktor very earnestly trying to comfort him by spilling all his secrets, and Yuuri crying even more because of secondhand embarrassment. There’s pictures of them somewhere, in each other’s shirts, weeping over a pile of empty shot glasses.  
  
Every year Yuuri tells himself he’s going to stop letting drunk Yuuri do things to him, and every year drunk Yuuri ruins Yuuri’s life in some new and exciting way.

“Wow,” Viktor says. “And I thought married couples were boring. The older me must be exciting.” He slides closer on the bed, lashes lowered. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“You could never disappoint me.”

Viktor blushes. “When am I?”

“You’re thirty-five now.”

Yuuri is vaguely offended on thirty five year old Viktor’s behalf at the face the younger Viktor makes. Viktor, in defiance of the natural order, has only gotten better looking over time; he gets as much, if not more, attention now that he did when he was younger. Yuuri sometimes wants to write ‘property of Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov’ on his face. Or his ass.

“We’ve been married for five years,” Yuuri adds. “We met when you came to Japan for a change of scene. You were my coach.”

“Did you win a lot of medals?”

Yuuri grins.

“With your coaching? At least five golds—you said you wouldn’t marry me until I won at least one.”

“Well,” Viktor says, and to Yuuri’s horror, his voice wobbles alarmingly and a single tear creeps down his face. His expression remains perfectly blank. “That’s nice.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m fine.”

Yuuri brushes the tear, milky with concealer, off Viktor’s cheek.

“That’s bullshit, Vitya.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but don’t lie.” Yuuri swallows; he sounds too angry, he thinks, he always lets Viktor getting upset throw him. “If you’re upset, be upset. It’s okay. You can cry on my shoulder if you want to.”

Viktor’s slow, wide-eyed blink is akin to a child shown the breadth of the universe for the first time.

“…really?”

“Always.”

Viktor flings himself at him. Yuuri barely gets his arms around Viktor, Viktor’s messy silver head shoved under his chin, before Viktor starts messily sobbing into Yuuri’s good suit and clinging to the back of his jacket. His cut hair gets all over Yuuri’s clothes. The bruise on Viktor’s neck is centimeters from Yuuri’s fingers and he has to resist the urge to touch it.

Is this how Viktor felt, wound around Yuurik on the bathroom floor? Did he feel this protective? Yuuri knows, rationally, that this Viktor will endure, that he will be happy, that he will come running into Yuuri’s life like a hurricane and never leave.

But still. Yuuri wants to protect him.

Finally, Viktor stops; it could have been minutes or hours, Yuuri has no idea. Time when Viktor is upset moves slow like the approach of a glacier.

Viktor looks longingly at him when he pulls away, the one long portion of his hair stuck to his cheek, his eyes bloodshot.

He’s ugly, and from the way he holds his body and tries to force a smile, he knows it.

(How strange to think there are Viktors who don’t know Yuuri loves him so, so much, with the force of a tsunami, with the depth and width of the ocean. When they first met Yuuri was desperate to conceal it, and yet he was honestly shocked when he found out he had. Wasn’t it obvious?)

“Here,” Yuuri says. He holds out his hands, and after a moment Viktor gives him his own. Yuuri rungs his thumb over the bare space on his right ring finger where their wedding ring will someday sit, and then slips the anchor band from his wrist onto Viktor’s. “That’s better.”

 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is talking. Viktor started talking as soon as Yuuri sat him down in front of the vanity and draped a towel over his shoulders to catch all the loose hair, and he still hasn’t stopped. Yuuri is listening to him unburden himself with half an ear; the rest of his attention is consumed by his attempts at being a barber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mushu voice* I LIVE
> 
> thanks to cary for the beta! cary is a selfcest enabler who needs to stop encouraging me to write vyvy

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

He combs the ragged hair on the back of Viktor’s neck straight, lines up the scissors, and takes a silent but deep breath. It looked fine on television that year, he reminds himself, and then cuts. Fine silver hair falls to the bathroom floor.

Viktor is talking. Viktor started talking as soon as Yuuri sat him down in front of the vanity and draped a towel over his shoulders to catch all the loose hair, and he still hasn’t stopped. Yuuri is listening to him unburden himself with half an ear; the rest of his attention is consumed by his attempts at being a barber.

So far Viktor has complained about the ISU’s dress code (understandable), and an unflattering article published about him recently (Yuuri remembers this one, in a gay teenage outrage kind of way) and how much he hates cheap polyester-wool blends (Yuuri has heard this approximately ninety seven hundred times already). He also thinks that the plush version of him he had to sign so his official fan club could gift it to the winner of a contest they were holding is ugly.

(Yuuri won that contest. He has the plush in the apartment somewhere, carefully preserved. He has a dim memory of kissing it goodnight at least once.)

“And I thought that Igor and I were friends, but I think he was only having sex with me because he hated me.”

“What?” Yuuri very nearly slices open Viktor’s head. Viktor raises his brows at him in the mirror, but does not move; he has the perfect stillness of someone who has spent too many hours in a stylist’s chair, and no matter how animated he sounds, he doesn’t wriggle. “Who hates you?”

“Oh, just—”

“Igor Petrov!”

“Yes, he—”

“The one you absolutely crushed?”

“I didn’t _crush_ him.”

“Yes, you did!”

“Yes, I did, but I thought I was being polite by not mentioning it.”

Despite himself, Yuuri snorts. He feels a little bad for Viktor’s rinkmates, who he so thoroughly surpassed. But only a little. Yuuri would have done anything in his youth to be on the ice with Viktor. He can’t understand why anyone would waste the opportunity.

Besides, Igor made Viktor cry; he and his frankly sad triple axel are dead to Yuuri now.

Did Igor want Viktor to wear that particular medal while they fucked to prop up his ego? Did he tell Viktor he hated him while he was inside him? Yuuri’s chest hurts just thinking about it. Yuuri smooths Viktor’s hair into place and squints at it. It looks okay. Not fancy salon standard, but maybe Hair Cuttery level. It’s not like Viktor can see the back of his head.

“What do you want to do with the front?”

“I want bangs,” Viktor replies. “Just on the left side.”

“Okay.”

Yuuri turns the stool around with his foot so that Viktor is facing him. He’s watching Yuuri with the kind of unabashed intensity that he reserves for interesting problems; Yuuri never tires of being looked at this way. The long strands of hair reach Viktor’s waist; Yuuri picks them up, pulls them straight, and tries to gauge how much hair he should cut off. He ought to have looked at a picture of Viktor for reference.

He cups Viktor’s cheek. By twenty-seven, Viktor had something worn in his eyes; he talked to Yuuri plenty in those first months in Hasetsu, but not often enough about his problems. What is personal to Viktor and what isn’t isn’t always obvious. This younger version of him, still in the flush of pleasure from a gold medal, insists on coming sideways at what’s actually bothering him.

“Yuuri?” The sound of the older Viktor’s voice echoes throughout the apartment as the front door opens and closes. The dogs are barking. “My beautiful little cute katsudon honey! Where are you?”

“Katsudon?” Viktor asks.

_“Little?”_ Yuuri mouths incredulously. He prods his gut with a fingertip. Then he puts the scissors down.

Older Viktor bursts into the bathroom, suit crisp, hair elaborately braided, arms held out, and drapes himself over Yuuri in an affectionate hug. He smells like roses—he must have brought flowers—and he clutches Yuuri like they’ve been apart months instead of hours. Yuuri leans into him wordlessly.

“I’m back,” Viktor says.

Yuuri kisses him. “Are the dogs okay?”

“Fine.”

“Oh. Hey.” Yuuri taps Viktor’s shoulder and points at the vanity, where the younger Viktor is watching them with great interest. “Happy anniversary.”

“It’s me!”

“You have hair, thank god.” Younger Viktor leans forward. “A lot of hair.”

“I got bored with it being short again,” Viktor admits. His glossy hair is as long as it was in his youth now. “What do you mean, _thank god?”_

“Coaching makes you bald.”

“Coaching does not make you bald!”

“Yakov.”

“Yakov went bald at thirty!”

“Lilia.”

“Lilia isn’t _bald!”_

“You don’t know that. Her forehead is huge. It could be a wig.”

Yuuri bites his lip to stifle his laughter. Older Viktor and younger Viktor are wearing matching expressions of horror. He cannot wait to tell Lilia about this conversation.

He detaches himself from Viktor’s embrace and picks up the scissors again. The younger Viktor’s remaining portion of long hair is still draped over his left eye. He braces himself, in case he fucks it up and and has to act quickly to cover it up, and starts to cut.

“What are you doing?” Older Viktor shrieks. “Are those my nail scissors?”

“…yes?”

“You’re using them on my hair?”

“…yes?”

“What is _wrong_ with you,” both Viktors say. Older Viktor opens up the bathroom cabinet and produces a small pouch, out of which he takes a small comb and a pair of scissors that are in no discernible way different from the ones Yuuri is holding. Yuuri puts down the nail scissors and allows Viktor to press the correct ones into his hands. He lines up the bangs again.

The Viktors seem remarkably unconcerned about his attempts at barbering.

“Do you want to do it?” Yuuri asks his husband.

“No,” younger Viktor says firmly.

_It looks right,_ Yuuri thinks, and before he can work himself up about it too much he snips. Long strands of silvery hair fall onto the bathroom floor. The bangs are a little crooked, but they fall over Viktor’s eye in exactly the way they do in all Yuuri’s fondest memories, and he brushes them out of Viktor’s face without thinking.

Viktor leans into his hand. The medal he was wearing earlier is sitting by the sink, slipped off his neck when Yuuri tucked a towel over his shoulders to spare his shirt. The eye cream and the conversation seem to have cheered him up; he looks genuinely happy when he cranes his neck to get a look at himself in the mirror.

“It looks good, doesn’t it?” He arranges the bangs. “Am I pretty?”

“Yes,” older Viktor says.

_“Yes,”_ Yuuri says.

Younger Viktor is playing with his hair in the mirror, fluffing it up and then smoothing it back down. He pokes his exposed ears. Yuuri’s seen the older Viktor do the same thing every time he got his hair cut, back when it was still short. He watches as younger Viktor picks at the hair stuck to his shirt with distaste.

“Can I take a shower?” he asks.

“Sure. Vitya, can you—” Yuuri waves vaguely at the shower, just so younger Viktor doesn’t think he’s going to make a pass at him. Not that Yuuri doesn’t want to make one, he just wants this small sad Viktor to shower and eat first. He doesn’t know what Viktor was trying to accomplish by banging an inferior specimen like Igor Petrov but Yuuri wants no part of it. “I’m…gonna go out and get dinner. Do you want anything?” Yuuri adds. He glances at younger Viktor.

“Whatever will fit in my diet plan.”

“You can cheat just this once,” older Viktor wheedles.

“No, it’s bad for discipline.”

“You can eat dessert off of Yuuri’s abs.”

“He can what now,” Yuuri says. Both Viktors ignore him.

“Can I really? He won’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Are either of you going to ask me?” Yuuri asks. Older Viktor laughs. “You can if you want, but I retired, they’re not great abs.”

“I want chocolate-covered prunes. The fancy ones.”

Yuuri shudders with regret, because only Viktor could find the one fruit that didn’t deserve to be covered with chocolate and decide he loved it, but nods and resigns himself to having pruney chocolate licked off his soft stomach. The things he does for love. He grabs older Viktor’s arm and pulls him out of the bathroom.

“Hey.”

“Look, can I—”

“Yes, you can sleep with him, I don’t care,” Yuuri says impatiently. They’ve talked about this. Although Yuuri would prefer that they wait until after dinner so that Yuuri can watch, possibly order them around. What? He and Viktor have spent a lot of time fantasizing about this. It’s fine. “But should I…I mean…he’s you. Should I be doing something?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was really upset when he…he cried all over me. Did something happen?”

Older Viktor frowns, fingertip against his lip like he does when he’s thinking. “I thought winning would change things for me,” he says. “And it did, but…not always in the way I hoped.”

Yuuri stares at him, trying to parse out what he means. Viktor’s described to him how hurt he was by the increased media attention and the resentment from his peers as his career took off, and he’s talked in spurts, in the middle of the night and the early morning, about the way it felt, to fold his entire being into a cardboard cutout of himself and feel unable to stop. He’s still not exactly sure what happened to young Viktor to set him off.

“You don’t really need to do anything special,” Viktor says, smiling. “To have someone love him unconditionally is probably enough.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks. He loves Viktor unconditionally everyday, and it’s not nearly as hard as Viktor makes it sound. He’s pretty sure he could do more.

Viktor kisses him. All the thoughts leave Yuuri’s mind, everything blurs pleasantly, he digs his fingers into the back of Viktor’s suit jacket happily. When they finally break apart, Viktor rests his forehead against Yuuri’s.

“I’ll be back,” Yuuri says. “Call and cancel our dinner reservations? I forgot.”

“Mm.” Viktor says. “Come back soon.”

Yuuri retrieves his jacket and his wallet, and walks to the front door, past the bouquet of roses sitting on the counter and the two sleeping dogs curled up in the Vera Wang dog bed. He picks up the keys and turns back; he can hear the two Viktors in the bathroom. Over the sound of the water running, he can hear laughter.

If he hurries back, he might make it before they inevitably start planning to seduce him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _looks at all my WIPs_ this is fine
> 
> Porn next chapter. Any requests?


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Yuuri comes back to apartment laden with Chinese food and a giant bouquet of flowers, neither of the Viktors are in the living room. He can hear laughter from the bedroom, and doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. Obviously he wants both of them to be happy, but one, that means he isn’t about to fulfill his lifelong fantasy of walking in on them blowing each other, and two, there is a very high chance they’re laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently* porn? did i say that?

When Yuuri comes back to apartment laden with Chinese food and a giant bouquet of flowers, neither of the Viktors are in the living room. He can hear laughter from the bedroom, and doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. Obviously he wants both of them to be happy, but one, that means he isn’t about to fulfill his lifelong fantasy of walking in on them blowing each other, and two, there is a very high chance they’re laughing at him.

He sets the table nicely, with the good china that Yuuri has no idea why they own because even their everyday china is hideously expensive, and candles that are shaped like hearts, and the takeout arranged in serving dishes to disguise its origins. He puts the box of chocolate covered prunes in the fridge. Yuuri checks his own appearance in the mirror—a little rumpled since Viktor was crying on him earlier, but otherwise all right—before he gives in and goes to interrupt.

Older Viktor is carrying a armful of garment bags out of the closet; younger Viktor is lying on the fainting couch, dressed in the Armani trenchcoat in red from a photoshoot they did a few years ago. He’s wearing one glove and holding older Viktor’s phone in his bare hand; his nails have been repainted, scarlet this time.

Yuuri smiles.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“Yuuri!” Older Viktor whirls around. He is wearing his jinbei from Yu-topia. It is falling off him (Yuuri has never figured out how Viktor _does_ this). “Look, it still fits!”

“Whoever dressed you for this photoshoot was an idiot,” younger Viktor says. “Plaid? And why are the cuffs rolled up? What, Valentino couldn’t afford to get you pants that _fit?”_

_“I_ rolled them up,” Yuuri says.

Younger Viktor stares at him. “Why?”

“Because of your foot fetish.”

“What foot fetish?” he asks, way too loudly. Yuuri resists the urge to laugh at him with great effort. “I don’t have a foot fetish.”

“I guess it’s more like a full lower extremity fetish, yeah.”

Viktor, incredibly, blushes and won’t meet his eyes.

Yuuri stares at him. Is he kinkshaming _himself?_ It’s like laying eyes on a Viktor Nikiforov limited edition ESPN Body Issue pullout poster, mint condition. Yuuri didn’t know Viktor experienced shame. By the time they’d met, Viktor had reached “casually tagging his Instagram posts #steponmeyuuri” levels of sexual transparency. Wow. Amazing. Yuuri glances up and meets the older Viktor’s eyes across the room. Older Viktor raises an eyebrow.

_This is getting confusing,_ Yuuri thinks, and he sits down on the floor besides the fainting couch.

“What should I call you?”

“Hmm?” Viktor looks up from whatever he’s doing on the phone; looking through older Viktor’s pictures, it looks like. “What do you mean?”

“It’s kind of confusing to have two Vityas,” Yuuri explains.

“Oh,” younger Viktor says. “Well, you could just call me Viktor—”

“No,” older Viktor says, “you have to call him something cute so he knows you like him.”

This logic seems a little specious to Yuuri. He leans against the fainting couch and lets his head fall back against younger Viktor’s thigh. He feels the brush of leather against his skin as younger Viktor puts a hand on his head. In truth, Yuuri does have something in mind, something he looked up after the Yuurik Incident, but he’s debating whether or not to voice it. Is it weird that Yuuri prepared for a hypothetical time travel threesome this much? Will younger Viktor mind having to use a nickname? Maybe he should make older Viktor use it so he doesn’t feel excluded.

Older Viktor wanders over, and leans over the back of the couch. It’s getting crowded.

“This thing wasn’t made for three,” older Viktor muses.

“You had it reupholstered,” younger Viktor adds. Yuuri turns around to see him run his bare hand along the brocade. “It matches now.”

Yuuri has to hide a smile. When he moved to St. Petersburg, he’d been confused by the existence of the fainting couch, a dark wood piece with hideous yellow fabric that sat in the corner of Viktor’s bedroom under the windows. The rest of the apartment was perfectly coordinated—I had an interior designer pick out everything, Viktor had said carelessly when Yuuri asked—but the couch was an ugly standout. Viktor admitted to having bought it online, but when Yuuri asked why, he’d changed the subject.

_Five_ times. And he got weird about Yuuri sitting on it, or even putting other things on top of it. The mystery had consumed Yuuri, who had surreptitiously found himself examining the couch whenever he was alone, checking it for hidden compartments or bodies concealed in the stuffing. Finally, one afternoon he’d walked in on Viktor lying on the couch…naked…furiously stroking his cock. A towel was laid down.

“Uh,” Yuuri had said.

“I can explain,” Viktor had said.

“I’m twenty-four, I understand what masturbation is!”

“…right.”

“Wait.” Yuuri had stared at him, with both intense lust and triumph. “Is _that_ what this couch is for?”

It was cute that Viktor had thought maybe Yuuri needed easing into Viktor’s regency era fetish, which he kept under wraps out of pragmatic concerns about his image, but Yuuri didn’t need easing into anything, as he’d demonstrated by both jerking off on the couch really loudly and by having it reupholstered to match the rest of their furniture. (Also because Yuuri had kind of ruined the original upholstery, but that wasn’t his fault, Viktor could have waited the five seconds it would have taken to grab a towel to blow him.)

“How do you feel about Vityok?”

“Vityok?”

“Vityok,” Yuuri repeats. He puts a hand on younger Viktor’s thigh. It lands higher than he intends it to. “Do you like it?”

Viktor—Vityok—swallows loudly. Yuuri pats him on the thigh—okay, on the groin—again.

“Hungry?” He gets to his feet and starts to leave the room. “Come on, the food’s getting cold.”

He glances back as he lingers in the doorway. Viktor is still wearing his jinbei, the left shoulder slipped off until it’s somewhere in the vicinity of his elbow. Vityok is taking off the trenchcoat and tucking it away in the garment bag. Underneath he’s wearing one of Yuuri’s workout tees and the tiniest pair of denim cutoffs Yuuri has ever seen.

“What?” Viktor asks as he passes Yuuri in the doorway, pressing up against him even though there’s plenty of room. He peels off Vityok's glove using his teeth. “They don’t fit me anymore.”

Yuuri snags Vityok by one of his belt loops.

“Come on,” he says again. “You can enact your plan to seduce me later.”

“What plan to seduce you?” Vityok asks unconvincingly. “Is that Chinese? I love Chinese.”

 

* * *

 

Vityok has to be nagged into eating—apparently young Viktor didn’t take cheat days because it was bad for discipline, which is literally the _saddest thing_ Yuuri has ever heard—and eventually Yuuri resorts to the surefire method of handfeeding him. Viktor pouts until Yuuri feeds him, too. Makkachin and Flip paw at their legs, demanding scraps. Yuuri is glad he had a snack earlier.

“Oh, what a good dog,” Vityok says as Flip tries to climb on him. Flip is their tiny toy poodle. “I always wanted another one.”

“Me, too,” Yuuri says. “As soon as Vitya retired we adopted Flip.”

“It’s good for Makka to have a friend, too,” Viktor says. “She used to get so lonely when I was gone all the time.”

The look on Vityok’s face is heartbreaking for a single second, and then it vanishes, replaced by a plasticine smile. Yuuri winces; of course Viktor would be bad at comforting himself. He nudges Vityok’s knee under the table.

“Viktor took good care of both of them while I was competing,” Yuuri says. Surely if Vityok hears that Viktor is the best dog co-parent, he will stop looking like that, right?

But no, Vityok looks, if possible, even more upset than before. But he bites his lip, and again his face rearranges itself into a reasonable facsimile of happiness. If Yuuri didn’t know Vityok, he might even be fooled, but it’s too late for that. Yuuri knows him. Yuuri has seen Viktor’s post-drinking hangover concealment makeup routine, helped him practice his answers for interviews to get them just saucy enough, hidden all the weird shit under the bed for when they had their apartment toured for an exclusive interview.

Viktor is like a lung, a football field’s worth of quirks folded up inside him, and Yuuri has done the dissection.

He gives Viktor a look. _Do something,_ he tries to say with his eyes. _Help him._

Viktor looks back at him with an expression that says that clearly he has no idea.

“Prunes!” Yuuri says loudly. “I bought your prunes. For you to eat.”

“Off your abs,” Viktor adds.

Vityok stares at Yuuri. Yuuri has the disconcerting feeling he is imagining what Yuuri looks like under his shirt. Of course, it’s possible that he’s already seen it, Viktor’s phone has plenty of nudes. Oh god, has he seen that picture Yuuri took with the mayo and the—it was a _bet_ that Yuuri lost, he wasn’t serious. Yuuri starts to shrug out of his suit jacket.

“Here, let me,” Vityok says, and he comes around behind Yuuri to ease the jacket down Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri lifts his hands so that the sleeves can slip over his wrists, and Vityok folds the jacket absently and sets it down on the seat he just vacated. He undoes the button of Yuuri’s shirt—Yuuri never did find his tie—and gets them halfway undone before he gives up and slides his hands underneath to feel Yuuri’s body. Yuuri shivers at Vityok’s touch, his palms dragging over his chest and stomach, nails dug in lightly.

Yuuri leans his head back against Vityok; he can see the Mizuno logo upside down, the way the fabric is straining over Vityok’s chest.

“This suit fits so much better than what you were wearing in the pictures.”

“That’s because I bought this one,” Viktor says. He has one fingertip pressed to his lips. “Yuuri always wants to wear ugly things.”

“When I wear clothes that fit it takes you twice as long to get them off me,” Yuuri says. It’s true; when Yuuri’s clothes are nice Viktor’s always too distracted by his handiwork to be of any use. Half the time Yuuri has to strip them both. He starts undoing the rest of the buttons, until the shirt is open and Vityok’s fingers are wandering over his stomach with great interest. His fingers are cold. They slip a little lower and Yuuri squirms; his pants are suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“Wow.” Vityok traces the bulge between Yuuri’s legs with a fingertip. “This looks exciting.”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says, at the same that Viktor says, “It’s delicious.”

“Are you trying to convince me not to sleep with you?” Vityok asks. “No one’s ever tried that before.”

“Well, I have been doing it for the past seven years,” Yuuri says. He turns his head so that he can kiss Viktor’s stomach through his shirt. “If nothing else I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Vityok finishes taking off Yuuri’s shirt, and folds that, too.

Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment; when he opens them, Vityok is stripping off his shirt and Viktor has vanished into the kitchen. He can hear the distinctive squeak of their fridge door, the one that always makes Yuuri jump when he’s eating a midnight snack or stealing Viktor’s leftovers.

“Did you two decide what we were doing while I was out?” Yuuri asks. He gets up. Vityok lets him put his arms around him, so close their lips are almost touching. He can feel how hard Vityok is against his groin. He likes the idea of them talking about him, about this younger Viktor fantasizing about him the way a younger Yuuri fantasized about Viktor.

“No,” Vityok says. He licks his lips.

“Well, you won gold, you get to pick.”

“I’ve won gold,” Viktor says loudly. He’s carrying the box of prunes under his arm; he sets it on the table between the candles. “I should get to pick.”

“I’ve won gold more recently than you have,” Yuuri points out.

“Just because I retired first,” Viktor says, mock indignant.

Yuuri opens his mouth to retort, but out of the corner of his eye sees Vityok’s expression. He turns back to him, tightening his grip on his hips; there it is again, that momentary distress. And Yuuri has no idea why.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Vityok lies.

“But you look sad.”

“I’m not—” Vityok bites his lip again, and Yuuri can practically see him decide to be honest. Viktor alway gets the same look before he blurts out whatever blunt thought he has on his mind. “I want to win another Olympic gold.”

“…what?” _You did._

“I want to win gold again! And I’m going to be washed up at twenty-two, and obviously it’s nice that future me is going to have a loving husband, but I’m not ready to retire. I want to win.”

It takes all of Yuuri’s self-control to not laugh. Behind him, Viktor snorts.

“Uh,” Yuuri says. He lets go of Vityok reluctantly, trying frantically to figure out what— “Is this about the photo wall?”

“What about my photo wall?” Viktor asks. “Oh.”

There aren’t any pictures of Viktor’s impressive skating career. There aren’t any pictures of Viktor before he met Yuuri, period. There’s some in the study, and Yuuri sent some home to his parents to go up along with the rest of the family portraits, and of course there’s the medal case in the living room, but Vityok’s probably been in the bedroom the whole time, getting his nails done and exploring the far reaches of their closet. Which seems to have given him some misconceptions about the future of his career.

“Here.” Yuuri fumbles for his phone and pulls up his bookmarks. He pulls up Viktor’s Wikipedia page, since he’s edited it recently and it should still be up to date. “Didn’t you google yourself?”

Vityok takes the phone, and starts scrolling. Yuuri can pinpoint the exact moment he gets to the words ‘most decorated figure skater of all time’, because he mouths them as he reads them. His lips part in surprise as he reads through his list of accomplishments, his endless list of medals, his multiple world records, his iconic quad flip.

“I forgot that I used to hang medals up in my bedroom,” Viktor says. “I took everything down before Yuuri moved in.”

“Why?”

“Well, I thought it might be insensitive,” Viktor admits. “Since you didn’t take gold at the Grand Prix Final—”

Yuuri laughs. “What? No, I wouldn’t have cared.” He hesitates before putting his arms around Vityok again. “I’m always happy when you win.”

“Even if I beat you?” Vityok asks. It’s meant to sound teasing, maybe, but it doesn’t come out that way.

“You beat me the first time we ever met.”

“Did I really?”

“Of course.”

“You didn’t mind?”

“Why would I _mind?”_ It’s as if they’ve gone into some funhouse mirror version of reality, where Yuuri is bolstering Viktor’s confidence. Is this what Viktor felt like when he was coaching? No wonder he started out so awful at it.

“Igor minded,” Vityok mutters. “He’s been bitter even since I moved up, his senior debut didn’t go as well as mine did.”

It is not reasonable for Yuuri to go over to Igor Petrov’s house and hit him in the balls with Yuuri’s skates, but Yuuri indulges in imagining it for several seconds anyway. No wonder Vityok was so upset.

“You should stop sleeping with skaters who resent you,” Viktor says.

“All the skaters I know resent me,” Vityok says. He leans into Yuuri’s touch. “Except _you_.”

Yuuri holds him tight, like maybe all the sadness can be squeezed out of him, and after a moment Viktor drapes himself over his past self from behind, his arms over Yuuri’s shoulders. It doesn’t matter that Yuuri knows that’s untrue, that there’s Chris and Georgi and two of Viktor’s older peers who like him just fine. A part of him wishes he could conjure up the Yuuri of the past for Vityok, to offer him the unassailable truth that Yuuri, wherever and whenever he is, will always like him.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispers.

“For what?”

“For all the terrible sexual encounters you’re going to have in the next six years.”

“Well,” Vityok says, as he grabs a handful of Yuuri’s ass and squeezes, “you can make it up to me by making sure I have at least _one_ that’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's arthritis porn all over again, i swear to god, watch me write like more chapters of set up before anyone bangs. (the viktors are going to spitroast yuuri. possibly there will be a period dress involved.)


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you want something?” Yuuri asks, as he runs his thumb over the lacy edge of Vityok’s neckline. 
> 
> Vityok sighs. “I want a lot of things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know it's a seventhstar fic when the chapter count _keeps increasing_

If one Viktor is overwhelming, two of them is almost unbearable. It’s hard to focus on getting them undressed when they’re both so pretty. They end up sprawled on the fainting couch together; Yuuri in Viktor’s lap, with Vityok on top of him.

The problem, Yuuri realizes quickly, is that though Vityok is barely wearing clothes anyway and Viktor’s jinbei is actively falling off, Yuuri is wearing the bottom half of his suit. There’s no way he can get out of it without one of them moving, and he’s so hard it hurts, and Vityok is sitting right on his dick, his tiny cutoffs unbuttoned and bulging.

If it were just Viktor, Yuuri would throw him down on the couch and do whatever he wanted. Vityok kisses him so desperately, though, like if he stops, Yuuri will disappear. Behind him Viktor is leaving what is going to be an impressive set of hickies on Yuuri’s neck and shoulder. Yuuri shivers.

“Sweetheart.” Neither of them respond. Vityok bites his shoulder. “Vityok.”

“What?”

“Let me up so I can take off your pants. And mine.” Yuuri tugs at the waist of Vityok’s shorts. “He should have just given you a skirt.”

“I don’t think I have any skirts that fit.”

“We have a closet full of dresses,” Viktor says.

“What?”

“Do you want to go put one on?” Yuuri asks. When Vityok looks a little hesitant, he adds, “You can always take it back off.”

Fine, so maybe Yuuri has an ulterior motive. Maybe over the past eight years Yuuri has acquired Viktor’s regency fetish, or at least Viktor’s being fucked while in a period dress fetish. Maybe it’s occurred to him that if he can just get Vityok out of his shorts, there is zero chance he’s wearing underwear. Besides, Yuuri already knows Viktor likes wearing dresses, because after Yuuri bought him the first one they started multiplying. (Fine, so Yuuri ruined several of them because he got overzealous. It’s a good thing literal bodice ripping is also Viktor’s kink.)

Vityok gets up reluctantly, and Yuuri slides off Viktor’s lap onto the couch beside him, yanking his jinbei off as he stands. Viktor puts his arm around Vityok.

“Come see my collection! It’s historically accurate.”

“Is there anything pink?”

The two of them vanish into the closet, and Yuuri hurriedly strips off his belt, his pants, his socks. He’s not wearing underwear, either, because it’s his wedding anniversary. He throws the clothes into the hamper. Then he sprawls, legs spread, out on the couch and waits.

He can hear the two of them of laughing. They have the same laugh, the same loose, open way of laughing when they’re happy. Yuuri remembers the first dress he bought Viktor, after a lot of careful maneuvering—stealing measurements without Viktor realizing, emailing back and forth with the costume designer, smuggling the package into the house—and how he’d presented it to Viktor as a gift.

There had been a lot less sex than Yuuri had expected afterward, because Viktor wanted to put on all the historically accurate undergarments and then was highly reluctant to take them back off. Still, Yuuri had had fun, lacing Viktor into the clothes and then obediently documenting him from every angle with their camera.

Something thumps from the direction of the closet. Yuuri runs the heel of his hand over his erection absently before sliding the basket of lube and condoms out from under the couch so they’re at hand. What have they knocked over? Is it the shoe rack? Yuuri _told_ Viktor it needed to be secured to the wall. They own the place, it’s not like they need to worry about getting their deposit back.

“Vitya?”

“Coming!”

“Just leave the shoes on the floor!”

“It was the tie rack!”

Yuuri snorts.

The closet door creaks open. Viktor comes out first, entirely naked at last. And behind him, being drawn by the arm, is Vityok, whose blush matches his dress. He’s dressed in pink, pale blue flowers embroidered down the bodice. The neckline of the dress is so low that Yuuri can see the tops of his nipples peeking out through the lace; his bare feet are visible beneath the hem.

Vityok is looking at him, eyes wide, and then he catches sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser and shimmies, skirts swirling about his hips.

“Twirl,” Viktor suggests. He nudges Vityok with his elbow. “Go on. Do a spin.”

Vityok glances at Yuuri; if he’s waiting for judgment, he’s going to be waiting a long time. Yuuri smiles at him, and that seems to be enough. Vityok does a spin, and then another, and then launches into an abbreviated bit of choreography. He adapts it for the small space as he goes; Yuuri recognizes it as what he’ll skate next season, watches the fabric fan out around him with delight.

“I haven’t done this in so long,” he says. He pushes his bangs back. “Where did you get this?”

“Yuuri bought it for me,” Viktor says.

Yuuri walks toward him and puts his hands on Vityok’s sides, feeling him up through the thin layer of fabric, tracing up his sides and across his chest until Yuuri can tug down at his neckline with his thumb. Vityok tips his head back in pleasure.

Viktor likes to be touched. Before, Yuuri would never have classed himself as a touchy person. He didn’t even hug his mom. But Viktor revels in being touched—in being pet and held and dragged around by the hand—and Yuuri had discovered that he was powerful. He could satisfy with a brush of his fingertips in Viktor the same kind of deep-seated need Viktor had met in him, when he’d whirled into Hasetsu to hoist Yuuri up into first place.

“Did you want something?” Yuuri asks, as he runs his thumb over the lacy edge of Vityok’s neckline.

Vityok sighs. “I want a lot of things.”

His lips part as Yuuri kisses him. The laces down the back of his dress catch at Yuuri’s fingers; the back of his neck is warm as Yuuri cups it in his palm. Vityok jumps as Yuuri touches his nape. _Of course,_ Yuuri thinks, _with long hair he’s not used to it._

Yuuri pulls him forward a couple steps, and then shoves him back onto the fainting couch. Vityok lets himself fall back onto it—pink muslin on blue brocade—knees parted so that the fabric falls prominently over his erection. Viktor inhales sharply somewhere behind him; Yuuri hopes he’s not bothered that Yuuri has to neglect him for a bit.

Slowly, Yuuri sinks to his knees in front of the couch.

He starts with Vityok’s bare foot, the only part of him in reach. His toenails are scarlet, too. Yuuri kisses along the arch of his foot, over the protruding bone on the side of his ankle. Vityok’s ankles have bruises, red marks from his skates. He lifts the hem of Vityok’s dress a few centimeters, letting it fall mid calf, trailing his mouth over the exposed skin. Lifts it a little more, to kiss around the barely there arthroscopy scars on Vityok’s knee.

He glances up at Vityok’s expression as he hikes up the skirt over his thigh—Vityok looks like he’s died and gone to heaven, arm thrown over his eyes like he can’t bear to watch—before biting into the meat of his thigh. _That’ll bruise,_ he thinks; long after he returns to his own time, Vityok will wear the reminder.

“I used to fantasize about things like this,” Viktor murmurs into Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri jump as Viktor presses up against him from behind, arms looped over his shoulders, lips against his ear. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead,” Yuuri say, though he’s not actually sure what Viktor wants.

Viktor lifts his hips a little, and slots his cock against Yuuri’s ass; he rubs up against him aimlessly, fingers dug into Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri runs his hands over Vityok’s legs: behind his knees where he’s soft, over top his thighs, feeling the beginnings of patches of stubble where the hair is starting to grow back in. He drags him down the sofa so that his hips are resting on the edge, legs raised.

The muslin is sticking to the tip of Vityok’s cock where it’s wet.

“The prunes,” Vityok says, dazed. Yuuri mouths at his cock through te fabric. “They’re—going to melt—”

“You’re worrying about this _now?”_

“It’s messy,” Viktor says.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. He seriously doesn’t know why they’re like this. Then he flips up Vityok’s skirt around his hips and licks a long, wet stripe up the underside of Vityok’s dick. Vityok jerks like he’s been struck.

Neither of them say anything else about the fucking prunes.

He can add ‘not blowing Vityok properly’ to the list of Igor’s sins, Yuuri thinks, if Vityok’s reaction is anything to go by—Yuuri has to brace himself against his thighs to hold him still. He licks every inch of hot skin, sucking the head of Vityok’s cock into his mouth before letting it slip out again. Vityok crumples his skirts in his fists, panting desperately; Yuuri opens his mouth to reassure him, but Viktor beats him to it.

He watches as Viktor snatches Vityok’s hand, kisses the back of it, and then sets it firmly on top of Yuuri’s head.

“You can pull.”

“But I—”

“Shh.” Yuuri squeezes his thigh. “You can. It’s all right. Hold onto me.”

Vityok nods, eyes wide. He looks so young, Yuuri thinks, and feels something hot in his chest. He thinks of how Viktor clung to him that first time, crying, like Yuuri’s terrified fumbling was the best thing he’d ever felt; he thinks of how this Viktor, this sad young Viktor who hasn’t yet learned, deserves so much better. He deserves everything Yuuri has.

It stings as Vityok grips Yuuri by the hair. Yuuri lets his head be dragged forward, lets his mouth fall open, and swallows Vityok down.

“Yuuri—”

This, at least, hasn’t changed over time. Vityok tastes the same way Viktor does; the head of his cock drags over the roof of Yuuri’s mouth the same delicious way. He slides his hands underneath Vityok, hauling him with handfuls of his ass so that he can feel Vityok’s cock twitch when he swallows.

The tip of Viktor’s cock prods against his entrance, slicker than Yuuri expect—Viktor found the lube—Viktor’s arms tight around him.

Yuuri pulls off long enough to pant, “Just put it in,” before he goes back to making Vityok scream.

Viktor fumbles behind him before he lifts Yuuri enough to penetrate him. There’s a brief moment of perfect fullness, Yuuri groaning in a way that makes Vityok yank sharply on his head, before Viktor buries his face against Yuuri’s shoulder and starts fucking him. The angle is wrong, it’s messy, Yuuri can’t bring himself to care. He wants Viktor to have him.

Everything goes a little hazy. His jaw aches. There’s sweat on Vityok’s thigh, slick under Yuuri’s hand, making the fabric stick to his legs. Viktor, behind him, rutting into him like Yuuri’s everything he needs to live. And Vityok, incoherent with pleasure—Yuuri’s known Viktor long enough to be able to measure his progress towards climax by the pitch of his voice—head tipped back so that the flush on his chest matches the color of his gown.

Yuuri’s not really sure which of them comes first—he just knows they’re both hot inside him, and he’s coming—he drags Vityok off the couch into his lap to touch their sweaty foreheads together.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Alright?” Yuuri asks.

“The prunes are going to be ruined,” Viktor says.

Vityok ruffles Yuuri’s hair, like he’s worried he pulled too hard.

God, Yuuri really hates chocolate prunes. He sighs.

“You want me to get the box?”

Viktor huffs in laughter against the back of his neck. Vityok beams. Yuuri lets them both crush him between them, eyes still closed; he can tell them apart just by the faint waver in the real Viktor’s voice, the vulnerability Vityok is nervous to give him. In a minute he’ll go and get the stupid prunes, and let them eat them off him; Yuuri would do much worse things for Viktor in a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are much appreciated! im doing my best


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so tired

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri, mostly asleep and firmly spooned over Vityok, takes several seconds to comprehend him. “Wha?” It’s too early, and Viktor is gone, and Yuuri’s back is cold. He clings to his remaining source of warmth.

“Yuuuuri.”

“No.”

“It’s nine am, why are you still asleep?”

“I’m old and tired,” Yuuri mumbles. He gropes Vityok’s chest absently; Vityok makes a soft sound, and puts his hand over Yuuri’s to keep it there. “Stay.”

“Okay.”

Vityok smells good, Yuuri thinks incoherently. He can feel Vityok’s pounding heart under his palm. He drifts in and out of sleep, until the smell of coffee and pancakes is too strong, and he hears the clink of a plate as a breakfast tray is set down nearby.

“I brought breakfast,” Viktor says. He is disgustingly cheerful. “Hungry?”

“Yes,” Vityok says.

“Mmph,” Yuuri says.

Viktor laughs, softly, and gets back into bed; Yuuri burrows down beneath the covers while Vityok and Viktor both sit up and start eating. The sound of them talking is soothing, somehow. He half-wants to stay as he is, just to prolong their happiness. But then again, now that he can smell the pancakes, he’s starving.

He pokes his head out. Viktor is eating his plain dry toast; Vityok, a cup of coffee in hand, is watching something on his phone, one earbud in, the other dangling down over his shoulder. He’s smiling, and he keeps pausing the video to ask Viktor questions.

“And how old is he in this one?”

“That’s before we met, so…twenty-one, I think? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Oh, we’re the same age,” Vityok says. “Wow.”

_Why are they talking about themselves in the third person,_ Yuuri thinks, and then his brain wakes up enough to comprehend the truth.

“Stop showing him video of me.”

“Eat your pancakes,” Viktor says. “No. I made a playlist just for this occasion, you know. I update it every six months.”

“Don’t show him _Lohengrin.”_

“I already did.”

“Rude.”

Yuuri sits up and accepts his glasses, then a plate of pancakes drizzled with butter and syrup and a fork. He shoves a forkful of pancakes into Vityok’s mouth before taking a bite himself. Viktor makes very good breakfast food, for some reason. The pancakes are excellent, and the maple syrup is the good stuff JJ sent them for Christmas.

“What are we doing today?” Vityok asks. “What do you normally do?”

“Today is grocery day,” Viktor says. “I booked you rink time but they couldn’t fit you in until tomorrow.”

Vityok looks disappointed. Whether with the banality of grocery shopping or with lack of skating time, Yuuri can’t tell. Probably both.

“He’ll go back the same time he left, he’s not missing any practice time,” Yuuri says. “We can get the groceries?” He pats Vityok on the arm. “And then we can…I don’t know, whatever.”

The two Viktors exchange speculative looks.

 

* * *

 

Somehow Yuuri get talked into doing the grocery shopping alone.

Not that Viktor is of use, really. Viktor is a terrible shopper: easily distracted, buys things that aren’t on the list without knowing what they are, always forgets at least one thing they really needed. There’s a reason he and Viktor rely so heavily on a grocery delivery service. Unfortunately, their last delivery didn’t account for a third person needing feeding, so here Yuuri is.

He sniffs a melon absently before dropping it into his basket. He wants potatoes. Yuuri has spent so much of his life restricting his potato intake that unlimited potatoes are practically his idea of heaven. There are bittersweet things about retiring, but getting to eat whatever he wants is assuredly one of the perks.

Besides, Viktor likes it too. He’s always trying to hand-feed Yuuri in a weird sort of foreplay. Yuuri doesn’t get it, but he always plays along anyway.

“Protein powder…protein powder…” Yuuri buys the smallest bottle. “Do we need more dog treats…?”

_Trick question,_ Yuuri thinks, _dogs always need treats._

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Yuuri shifts the basket he’s carrying to his other arm so that he can get it out. Viktor’s texted him. Probably he’s remembered something else he wants Yuuri to buy.

It’s a photograph, one that the shitty grocery wifi takes forever to load. Yuuri starts to put his phone away again, he can check later—

It’s Viktor’s ass.

It’s Viktor, bent over the bed. He’s holding himself open, showing off his favorite plug—bright pink, the base edged in gold—the color a stark contrast against his skin. There’s a line of pink lace along the bottom of the photograph; one of Viktor’s scantier pairs of underwear, pulled down around his thighs.

Except that the nails on the hands on his ass are scarlet. _Vityok’s_ hands.

Yuuri doesn’t drop his phone, but it’s a near thing. He shoves it back into his pocket and decides that anything he’s forgotten to buy can wait a day. Or two days. Or forever. He heads for the register and plunks the basket onto the conveyor.

He’s pretty sure the cashier is judging him. Good thing Yuuri is a gold medalist in avoiding eye contact.

_Just get home,_ Yuuri thinks as his phone goes off again. _Don’t look at it._

The cashier is ringing him up unbearably slowly.

Yuuri looks.

This time it’s both of them, side by side, holding themselves open—a part of Yuuri wonders how they took this picture—with matching plugs. His and Viktor’s matching plugs. Meaning the bright blue one deep inside Vityok is actually Yuuri’s. God, Yuuri wants to replace Vityok’s hands with his own, dig his fingers into the muscle until there are bruises. It wouldn’t take much, but the marks will take weeks to fade, long after Vityok is back in his own time.

 The cashier is saying, “Cash or card?”

Yuuri swipes his card backwards, then upside down, then finally gets it right. He snatches up the bags of groceries. If he runs he might be home in twenty minutes, and hopefully the cold outside means he won’t have to do it with an obvious erection.

It’s very cold outside. But that just makes Yuuri think about how warm Viktor must be, about the heat of his skin, about the heat of being inside him. He shoves his free hand and tries to think unsexy thoughts, like Yakov naked, and sad dogs, and—

“Hey, Yuuri!”

Yuuri has to resist the urge to run away. Maybe it’s just a fan and they’ll want an autograph, and then he can leave. With his luck they’ll want a selfie, they’ll post it, Viktor will see it, and he’ll escalate by sending Yuuri one nude a minute until he actually gets home. Sighing, Yuuri turns around; he’s being approached by two people. One of them is Igor Petrov, who Yuuri only recognizes because he googled him yesterday. And the other is…a younger Igor Petrov, anchor band over the sleeve of his jacket.

“Hey,” Igor says. “Is Viktor around?”

“Sorry, not today,” Yuuri says. “Would you like an autograph?”

“What? No, it’s me, Igor Petrov.”

“Who?”

Igor splutters. “I skated with Viktor!”

“Oh.” Yuuri squints. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“…okay.” Yuuri says. “Can I help you?”

Minako would not approve of this treatment of a fellow former skater, but Minako is also extremely petty, so he thinks under the circumstances she’d understand. If he’d met Igor two weeks ago, Yuuri would have feigned politeness, but right now Vityok’s distress is still clear in his mind. And it’s not helping Igor’s case that the first thing he did when running into Yuuri was ask for Viktor.

“So this is a younger me,” Igor says. “He and Viktor are friends, you know, and we thought he’d want to meet up.”

“He’s really—” Yuuri’s phone goes off again and Yuuri, like an idiot, looks at it and immediately has to put it away before he turns the color of ketchup. All the picture shows is Vityok’s face but Yuuri’s imagination is perfectly capable of filling in the rest. “Busy. We’re really busy.”

“Are you sure? Viktor and I are very close.”

“Right.”

“I mean, he probably told you all about me.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Yuuri says. “Hey, I have to run, my groceries will melt.”

“It’s freezing outside—”

But Yuuri’s already turned and started powerwalking away. As soon as he turns the corner he breaks out into a run. He rushes to their building and fidgets in the elevator on the way up and finally bursts into the apartment. Then he has to stop to put away the groceries, because if he leaves them out Makkachin and Flip will eat them. He refills the dogs’ food and water.

Finally, he bursts into the bedroom.

Viktor is up against the headboard, thighs spread, and Vityok is lying on his stomach between them. Vityok is sucking him off, not really seriously, just teasing the head with his lips and tongue. Yuuri climbs up onto the bed beside them. He strokes the swell of Vityok’s cheek, pushed out by Viktor’s cock before it slips out of his mouth. This close, Yuuri can see the spit-slick sheen of Vityok’s lips.

Vityok looks him in the eye as he sticks out his tongue and laps at the precome dripping off Viktor’s cock. He winks.

“I was in _public.”_

“I missed you,” Viktor says breathlessly.

Yuuri grins. “I only was gone for an hour.”

Viktor shrugs. His head tips back as he bites his lip, trying to muffle a sound that Yuuri wants to hear. One of his hands rests on Vityok’s hair—tightens, pulls—lets go. Yuuri watches them for a few moments longer; then he decides, under the circumstances, he can’t be held responsible for his impatience. He grabs Viktor’s knee and spread Viktor’s legs wider, so that he can just see the end of the plug firmly inside him. There are red marks on the inside of Viktor’s thighs where Vityok has gripped too hard.

Which means…Yuuri shifts down the bed and spreads Vityok’s ass. He’s a little disappointed the lacy panites from the pictures have been shed.

There, nestled in him, is Yuuri’s plug, silver around the edge of the base, lube dripping out of him around it. He wonders if Vityok put it in himself, if he thought about Yuuri while he did it. Selfish, to want two Viktors when Yuuri’s already been blessed with one. Unreasonable to ask for more when Yuuri’s already been granted everything.

“This is bigger than the one I have at home,” Vityok says.

“I had to help him put it in,” Viktor adds.

Yuuri bites at the curve of Vityok’s ass—there’s hardly any give—until there’s a bright red imprint there.

“Hey,” he says, He presses his thumbs into the dimples at the base of Vityok’s spine. “Can I rearrange you?”

Viktor and Vityok both make the same lazy gesture of assent.

At some point, the two of them are going to realize that Yuuri is weak for them and they don’t actually have to give him whatever he wants. (Though Viktor has had years to figure that out and is still an indulgent and tender husband.) But right now, Vityok obediently lets Yuuri pull the plug out, and Viktor obediently lets Vityok sit on his face with his hands braced on Viktor’s pecs.

“Is this safe?” Vityok asks.

“Everyone has to die of something,” Viktor replies. Yuuri snorts. He traces the edge of the plug inside Viktor with a fingertip. “You can leave that in.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“I know,” Viktor says, “but you can still leave it in.”

Yuuri considers arguing, but Vityok makes a high-pitched noise and clamps a hand over his mouth. Viktor’s mouth isn’t visible, but his fingers tighten on Vityok’s thighs. Whether that’s to hold Vityok in place, or because Yuuri has just slid a finger into him alongside the plug…well. There’s not really any way to know, is there? Except by experimenting.

He watches Vityok fall slowly apart.

His thighs tremble as Yuuri fingers Viktor open. His red nails leave crescent marks on Viktor’s chest as Yuuri hooks Viktor’s thighs over Yuuri’s hips. His eyes close, as if the physical stimulation is too much for him to process any other kind, as Yuuri presses the head of his cock beside the bright pink plug and gently, carefully, starts to penetrate him.

It’s for the best that Viktor’s eating Vityok out. It muffles Viktor’s scream.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, when the bed has been cleaned up, and Viktor has insisted on going back into the kitchen to organize all the groceries Yuuri hastily shoved into cabinets, and they’ve cobbled together a meal out of what food Yuuri bought before he was lured home, the three of them end up sprawled together in bed again. Makkachin and Flip, tired of being ignored, have joined them.

“This is a bigger bed than I have at home.”

“I had to upgrade so that Yuuri could live with me,” Viktor says.

“The bed in here was a queen before,” Yuuri points out. “How much room do two people need?”

“But with a bigger bed you can have more dogs,” Vityok points out. Flip is lying on top of him. He’d been nervous about this new Viktor for a bit, but Vityok has won him over with petting and bacon.

“See? Perfectly reasonable.”

“Mm.” Yuuri shrugs. The king bed is facilitating all Yuuri’s filthy threesome fantasies. He can’t complain.

Someone’s phone buzzes. Yuuri hopes it’s not his, because he’s not going to answer it and even if he did, he’s not convinced he’s capable of sensible interaction right now. Vityok’s head is on his stomach and Yuuri’s head is on Viktor’s thigh and moving seems like a lot of effort. Vityok shifts, the mattress creaking, and then stills; he doesn’t have a phone right now.

Viktor is closest to the nightstand. Yuuri hears the rustle as he strains to reach.

“Igor just messaged me on Instagram.”

“I thought you turned those off.”

“We’re mutuals.”

“Why?” Vityok asks.

“I like to remind myself that I won,” Viktor explains. “At skating. At life.” He hums in thought. “He says he wants to meet. Should we?”

“Ugh,” Vityok says.

“That’s probably a bad idea,” Yuuri says. “I, uh, I ran into him earlier. Igor time traveled, too.”

“I want to see him,” Vityok says. “You’re so much better looking than he is. I want to gloat.”

“We really can’t,” Yuuri repeats.

“Why?” Viktor asks.

“I might have acted like I didn’t recognize him. And like you’ve never mentioned him. And like I’ve never even heard of him.”

There is a brief moment of silence, and then both Viktors start snickering in unison.

“I take it back,” Viktor says, at the same moment Vityok, laughing, chokes out, “That is so much better!”

Yuuri takes the phone out of Viktor’s hands and starts scrolling through Igor’s Instagram. His latest post is just a shot of his and baby Igor’s abs. There’s a caption and tags, none of which Yuuri bothers reading. What can he say? Other people’s abs bore him. Viktor and Vityok are both right here and stunning.

“I need to get out of this apartment,” Vityok says. “I can _feel_ myself deconditioning. And your anti-aging cream is making me itch.”

“You’ll thank me when you start developing wrinkles.”

“I like those wrinkles,” Yuuri says absently. “Is it cold in here?”

“I’ll go adjust the heat,” Viktor says. He drags himself out of bed, stopping only to gently lower Yuuri’s head onto the covers. The bed is nice, but Yuuri mourns the contact as soon as he’s gone. And the screen on their thermostat is on its last legs; who knows how long it will take for Viktor to read the current temperature, let alone change it.

“I will have rink time tomorrow, won’t I?” Vityok asks. Yuuri sits enough to see his face. He looks pensive, lip between his teeth. “I need to practice more. I can’t afford distractions.”

“Sorry.”

Vityok blinks, then flushes a bit. “I didn’t mean you.”

“You can spend all of tomorrow practicing, I promise. We’ll get out of your way.” Yuuri hesitates before smoothing down Vityok’s bangs. “Don’t work too hard.”

“Those medals aren’t going to win themselves.”

“I know.”

Vityok frowns at him; Yuuri doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it must give away his feelings. As far as Yuuri is concerned, more distractions might do him good. He remembers how Vityok was upset yesterday too well. Everything seems fine now—but that doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way.

_There’s nothing I can do about it,_ Yuuri thinks. He doesn’t like it. He knows whatever struggles Viktor endured when he was younger, whatever emotional turmoil he had that he sublimated into skating and treated with discipline, they’re fixed in stone. Yuuri’s only consolation is that it means all the good things are fixed, too; eventually this version of Vityok, a little lonely, a little starved, will become the version Yuuri has now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is the last, i already wrote an ending. if there is porn, it'll probably be a few weeks; if i decide to keep it sfw, it might be up as early as tomorrow. today. you know. 
> 
> time is fake.
> 
> i appreciate your comments!


	6. six

Vityok wakes up hideously early in preparation for skating, which is awful, but then insists Yuuri help him shower, which is less awful, though it does make them nearly late.

“If only I still had a rink key,” Viktor bemoans as Vityok ransacks his closet to collect his equipment. “Yakov made me give mine back.”

Yuuri silently hands him a key.

“Yakov let you keep _yours?”_

“He said I was sensible and kept my nose clean.”

“You’re a deceitful minx is what you are,” Viktor says darkly. “You? Sensible? Has he ever seen you eat?”

“You eat prune jam.”

“It tastes good!”

“You stole my Nutella and you ruined it with prune jam.”

“There’s prune jam?” Vityok emerges with a bag and one of Viktor’s track jackets. “I had to bring it back from Moscow last time, are they selling it here now?”

“Unfortunately, yeah, they sell it here and some of us couldn’t read in Russian and thought it was normal jam and put it in our mouths—”

“You married a man who doesn’t like prune jam?”

“Of course I did. This way there’s no sharing.”

Once Yuuri has given Vityok an anomalous person identification band (it’s Yuurik’s, left behind when he was pulled back to his own time and place) and all three of them are wearing anchor bands as well, they leave. Vityok is in hurry and goes on ahead; Yuuri starts to follow but Viktor holds him back.

“It’s fine.”

“He seems kind of nervous. Are you sure?”

“It’s his first competition in Russia since the Grand Prix Final. I was getting to the point where I was considering actually doing the flip during Nationals.” Viktor shrugs. “It’s nice for him to have a break, but he needs to skate before he starts ripping his hair out.”

Yuuri tugs on the end of Viktor’s ponytail. “We wouldn’t want that.”

 

* * *

 

“How’s it going?”

Vityok blinks at them. Yuuri’s been standing with Viktor at the side of the rink watching him for several minutes, but Vityok didn’t seem to notice. He’s been gulping down water from his bottle centimeters from where Yuuri is standing without seeing him.

“Fine.” Vityok recaps the bottle. “Ah, I’m tired.”

  
“You don’t have to push yourself that hard,” Yuuri says. “You’re going to win.”

“Maybe I’ll win because I pushed myself this hard.”

Despite himself, Yuuri smiles. He slides Vityok the second bottle of water.

“Thanks.”

“Are you doing the flip?”

“Maybe. He says I should hold it until later in the season. And _he_ already did it.” Vityok looks a bit disgruntled as he looks pointedly at Viktor. Yuuri gloats a little internally; he’s been putting up with Viktor’s decided opinions for years, it’s about time he had a taste of his own medicine.

“You only get to unveil it once,” Viktor says.

“You sound like Yakov, you know.”

“Don’t tell him that. I want to maintain the illusion of disobedience.”

Vityok laughs. He hands back the water bottle and wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. Viktor wanders off, distracted by a rink employee calling his name, leaving them alone. Yuuri should go, give Vityok the last of his practice time in peace.

Instead he reaches out to fix Vityok’s bangs.

“They’re sweaty,” Vityok says.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“What inspires you?”

“What?”

Vityok pushes his bangs back. “I watched your programs,” he says. “Not just the ones he picked out, everything I could find last night. You’re so good.” He leans in over the boards. “What is it that you’re inspired by? I want it. I need it.”

“You don’t _need_ it.”

“I do.”

 _He needs it,_ Yuuri thinks. He thinks about how one win turned Viktor’s rinkmates into rivals, and about how hungry Vityok is, right now, and about eventually the hunger will eat up something vital inside him and he’ll wander into Hasetsu where Yuuri is waiting. He can’t protect Vityok from that. He can’t protect Vityok from himself. Nor, Yuuri thinks, does he need to.

“When I was eleven, we got to watch figure skating on television for the first time.” Yuuri remembers everything about that day with perfect clarity, like a single drop of water on a plate. “Junior World Championships. Sofia.”

“I remember that.”

“You were skating to The Lilac Fairy that year.” How unreal Viktor had been that day, slightly grainy on the Nishigori’s old television, like he’d wandered in from some other universe onto the ice. “When you skated, it was like time stopped. I thought about it constantly. I dreamed about it. Finally I told my parents I’d changed my mind and wanted to try competing. They found me a coach and I started training that year.”

Vityok’s face is pink. His mouth is open, but he seems beyond words.

“You’ve always been the person that inspired me. My entire career up until we met was about catching up to you.”

“…I…” Vityok trails off. And then, unexpectedly he laughs. “I’ve been incorporating something I saw you do last night into my free skate for this season.”

“But you won’t remember it when you go back.”

“I won’t consciously remember it, but if I can practice it enough now, the muscle memory might be enough.”

“What—what exactly are you changing?”

Vityok tells him.

It is, of course, something Yuuri saw in Viktor’s problem—in this very program—and decided to let inspire him.

The idea that he might inspire Vityok—not the version of Viktor that is clearly in love with Yuuri, this Viktor who barely knows him and is entirely objective about him—that in three days he was good enough that Vityok wanted him to imitate him—is overwhelming. It’s one thing to feel that he eventually reached Viktor’s level; another entirely to think that in some other world he would have been to Viktor what Viktor has always been to him.  
  
There are no words. Yuuri just takes Vityok’s hand.

”Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Catch up to me?”

“No,” Yuuri says. He smiles wistfully. “I was still behind you. But I guess…you met me where I was.” He puts his hand over Vityok’s on the boards. “You wanna run through it again? We have ten more minutes.”

Vityok hesitates. “I…”

“Go on.” Yuuri says softly. “I’ll wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is the last. thanks for all your support!


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